Opis ebooka The Railway Children - Edith Nesbit

The story concerns a family who move to a house near the railway after the father is imprisoned as a result of being falsely accused of selling state secrets to the Russians. The three children, Roberta, Peter and Phyllis, find amusement in watching the trains on the nearby railway line and waving to the passengers.

Opinie o ebooku The Railway Children - Edith Nesbit

Fragment ebooka The Railway Children - Edith Nesbit

She was born in 1858 at 38 Lower Kennington Lane in Kennington,
Surrey (now part of Greater London), the daughter of a
schoolteacher, John Collis Nesbit, who died in March 1862, before
her fourth birthday. Her sister Mary's ill health meant that the
family moved around constantly for some years, living variously in
Brighton, Buckinghamshire, France (Dieppe, Rouen, Paris, Tours,
Poitiers, Angouleme, Bordeaux, Arcachon, Pau, Bagneres de Bigorre,
and Dinan in Brittany), Spain and Germany, before settling for
three years at Halstead Hall in Halstead in north-west Kent, a
location which later inspired The Railway Children. When Nesbit was
17, the family moved again, this time back to London, living
variously in South East London at Eltham, Lewisham, Grove Park and
Lee. A follower of William Morris, 19-year-old Nesbit met bank
clerk Hubert Bland in 1877. Seven months pregnant, she married
Bland on 22 April 1880, though she did not immediately live with
him, as Bland initially continued to live with his mother. Their
marriage was an open one. Bland also continued an affair with Alice
Hoatson which produced two children (Rosamund in 1886 and John in
1899), both of whom Nesbit raised as her own. Her own children were
Paul Bland (1880-1940), to whom The Railway Children was dedicated;
Iris Bland (1881-19??); and Fabian Bland (1885-1900), who died aged
15 after a tonsil operation, and to whom she dedicated Five
Children And It and its sequels, as well as The Story of the
Treasure Seekers and its sequels. Nesbit and Bland were among the
founders of the Fabian Society (a precursor to the Labour Party) in
1884. Their son Fabian was named after the society. They also
jointly edited the Society's journal Today; Hoatson was the
Society's assistant secretary. Nesbit and Bland also dallied
briefly with the Social Democratic Federation, but rejected it as
too radical. Nesbit was an active lecturer and prolific writer on
socialism during the 1880s. Nesbit also wrote with her husband
under the name "Fabian Bland", though this activity dwindled as her
success as a children's author grew. Nesbit lived from 1899 to 1920
in Well Hall House, Eltham, Kent (now in south-east Greater
London). On 20 February 1917, some three years after Bland died,
Nesbit married Thomas "the Skipper" Tucker, a ship's engineer on
the Woolwich Ferry. Towards the end of her life she moved to a
house called "Crowlink" in Friston, East Sussex, and later to St
Mary's Bay in Romney Marsh, East Kent. Suffering from lung cancer,
probably a result of her heavy smoking, she died in 1924 at New
Romney, Kent, and was buried in the churchyard of St Mary in the
Marsh. Source: Wikipedia

Chapter1
The beginning of things.

They were not railway children to begin with. I don't suppose
they had ever thought about railways except as a means of getting
to Maskelyne and Cook's, the Pantomime, Zoological Gardens, and
Madame Tussaud's. They were just ordinary suburban children, and
they lived with their Father and Mother in an ordinary
red-brick-fronted villa, with coloured glass in the front door, a
tiled passage that was called a hall, a bath-room with hot and cold
water, electric bells, French windows, and a good deal of white
paint, and 'every modern convenience', as the house-agents say.

There were three of them. Roberta was the eldest. Of course,
Mothers never have favourites, but if their Mother HAD had a
favourite, it might have been Roberta. Next came Peter, who wished
to be an Engineer when he grew up; and the youngest was Phyllis,
who meant extremely well.

Mother did not spend all her time in paying dull calls to dull
ladies, and sitting dully at home waiting for dull ladies to pay
calls to her. She was almost always there, ready to play with the
children, and read to them, and help them to do their home-lessons.
Besides this she used to write stories for them while they were at
school, and read them aloud after tea, and she always made up funny
pieces of poetry for their birthdays and for other great occasions,
such as the christening of the new kittens, or the refurnishing of
the doll's house, or the time when they were getting over the
mumps.

These three lucky children always had everything they needed:
pretty clothes, good fires, a lovely nursery with heaps of toys,
and a Mother Goose wall-paper. They had a kind and merry nursemaid,
and a dog who was called James, and who was their very own. They
also had a Father who was just perfect—never cross, never unjust,
and always ready for a game—at least, if at any time he was NOT
ready, he always had an excellent reason for it, and explained the
reason to the children so interestingly and funnily that they felt
sure he couldn't help himself.

You will think that they ought to have been very happy. And so
they were, but they did not know HOW happy till the pretty life in
the Red Villa was over and done with, and they had to live a very
different life indeed.

The dreadful change came quite suddenly.

Peter had a birthday—his tenth. Among his other presents was a
model engine more perfect than you could ever have dreamed of. The
other presents were full of charm, but the Engine was fuller of
charm than any of the others were.

Its charm lasted in its full perfection for exactly three days.
Then, owing either to Peter's inexperience or Phyllis's good
intentions, which had been rather pressing, or to some other cause,
the Engine suddenly went off with a bang. James was so frightened
that he went out and did not come back all day. All the Noah's Ark
people who were in the tender were broken to bits, but nothing else
was hurt except the poor little engine and the feelings of Peter.
The others said he cried over it—but of course boys of ten do not
cry, however terrible the tragedies may be which darken their lot.
He said that his eyes were red because he had a cold. This turned
out to be true, though Peter did not know it was when he said it,
the next day he had to go to bed and stay there. Mother began to be
afraid that he might be sickening for measles, when suddenly he sat
up in bed and said:

"I hate gruel—I hate barley water—I hate bread and milk. I want
to get up and have something REAL to eat."

"What would you like?" Mother asked.

"A pigeon-pie," said Peter, eagerly, "a large pigeon-pie. A very
large one."

So Mother asked the Cook to make a large pigeon-pie. The pie was
made. And when the pie was made, it was cooked. And when it was
cooked, Peter ate some of it. After that his cold was better.
Mother made a piece of poetry to amuse him while the pie was being
made. It began by saying what an unfortunate but worthy boy Peter
was, then it went on:

He had an engine that he loved
With all his heart and soul,
And if he had a wish on earth
It was to keep it whole.

One day—my friends, prepare your minds;
I'm coming to the worst—
Quite suddenly a screw went mad,
And then the boiler burst!

With gloomy face he picked it up
And took it to his Mother,
Though even he could not suppose
That she could make another;

For those who perished on the line
He did not seem to care,
His engine being more to him
Than all the people there.

And now you see the reason why
Our Peter has been ill:
He soothes his soul with pigeon-pie
His gnawing grief to kill.

He wraps himself in blankets warm
And sleeps in bed till late,
Determined thus to overcome
His miserable fate.

And if his eyes are rather red,
His cold must just excuse it:
Offer him pie; you may be sure
He never will refuse it.

Father had been away in the country for three or four days. All
Peter's hopes for the curing of his afflicted Engine were now fixed
on his Father, for Father was most wonderfully clever with his
fingers. He could mend all sorts of things. He had often acted as
veterinary surgeon to the wooden rocking-horse; once he had saved
its life when all human aid was despaired of, and the poor creature
was given up for lost, and even the carpenter said he didn't see
his way to do anything. And it was Father who mended the doll's
cradle when no one else could; and with a little glue and some bits
of wood and a pen-knife made all the Noah's Ark beasts as strong on
their pins as ever they were, if not stronger.

Peter, with heroic unselfishness, did not say anything about his
Engine till after Father had had his dinner and his after-dinner
cigar. The unselfishness was Mother's idea—but it was Peter who
carried it out. And needed a good deal of patience, too.

At last Mother said to Father, "Now, dear, if you're quite
rested, and quite comfy, we want to tell you about the great
railway accident, and ask your advice."

"All right," said Father, "fire away!"

So then Peter told the sad tale, and fetched what was left of
the Engine.

"Hum," said Father, when he had looked the Engine over very
carefully.

The children held their breaths.

"Is there NO hope?" said Peter, in a low, unsteady voice.

"Hope? Rather! Tons of it," said Father, cheerfully; "but it'll
want something besides hope—a bit of brazing say, or some solder,
and a new valve. I think we'd better keep it for a rainy day. In
other words, I'll give up Saturday afternoon to it, and you shall
all help me."

"CAN girls help to mend engines?" Peter asked doubtfully.

"Of course they can. Girls are just as clever as boys, and don't
you forget it! How would you like to be an engine-driver,
Phil?"

"My face would be always dirty, wouldn't it?" said Phyllis, in
unenthusiastic tones, "and I expect I should break something."

"I should just love it," said Roberta—"do you think I could when
I'm grown up, Daddy? Or even a stoker?"

"You mean a fireman," said Daddy, pulling and twisting at the
engine. "Well, if you still wish it, when you're grown up, we'll
see about making you a fire-woman. I remember when I was a
boy—"

Just then there was a knock at the front door.

"Who on earth!" said Father. "An Englishman's house is his
castle, of course, but I do wish they built semi-detached villas
with moats and drawbridges."

Ruth—she was the parlour-maid and had red hair—came in and said
that two gentlemen wanted to see the master.

"I've shown them into the Library, Sir," said she.

"I expect it's the subscription to the Vicar's testimonial,"
said Mother, "or else it's the choir holiday fund. Get rid of them
quickly, dear. It does break up an evening so, and it's nearly the
children's bedtime."

But Father did not seem to be able to get rid of the gentlemen
at all quickly.

"I wish we HAD got a moat and drawbridge," said Roberta; "then,
when we didn't want people, we could just pull up the drawbridge
and no one else could get in. I expect Father will have forgotten
about when he was a boy if they stay much longer."

Mother tried to make the time pass by telling them a new fairy
story about a Princess with green eyes, but it was difficult
because they could hear the voices of Father and the gentlemen in
the Library, and Father's voice sounded louder and different to the
voice he generally used to people who came about testimonials and
holiday funds.

Then the Library bell rang, and everyone heaved a breath of
relief.

"They're going now," said Phyllis; "he's rung to have them shown
out."

But instead of showing anybody out, Ruth showed herself in, and
she looked queer, the children thought.

"Please'm," she said, "the Master wants you to just step into
the study. He looks like the dead, mum; I think he's had bad news.
You'd best prepare yourself for the worst, 'm—p'raps it's a death
in the family or a bank busted or—"

"That'll do, Ruth," said Mother gently; "you can go."

Then Mother went into the Library. There was more talking. Then
the bell rang again, and Ruth fetched a cab. The children heard
boots go out and down the steps. The cab drove away, and the front
door shut. Then Mother came in. Her dear face was as white as her
lace collar, and her eyes looked very big and shining. Her mouth
looked like just a line of pale red—her lips were thin and not
their proper shape at all.

"It's bedtime," she said. "Ruth will put you to bed."

"But you promised we should sit up late tonight because Father's
come home," said Phyllis.

"Father's been called away—on business," said Mother. "Come,
darlings, go at once."

They kissed her and went. Roberta lingered to give Mother an
extra hug and to whisper:

"I'M not goody," said Phyllis, "but I think Bobbie's right this
time."

"Of course. She always is. In her own opinion," said Peter.

"Oh, DON'T!" cried Roberta, putting down her egg-spoon; "don't
let's be horrid to each other. I'm sure some dire calamity is
happening. Don't let's make it worse!"

"Who began, I should like to know?" said Peter.

Roberta made an effort, and answered:—

"I did, I suppose, but—"

"Well, then," said Peter, triumphantly. But before he went to
school he thumped his sister between the shoulders and told her to
cheer up.

The children came home to one o'clock dinner, but Mother was not
there. And she was not there at tea-time.

It was nearly seven before she came in, looking so ill and tired
that the children felt they could not ask her any questions. She
sank into an arm-chair. Phyllis took the long pins out of her hat,
while Roberta took off her gloves, and Peter unfastened her
walking-shoes and fetched her soft velvety slippers for her.

When she had had a cup of tea, and Roberta had put
eau-de-Cologne on her poor head that ached, Mother said:—

"Now, my darlings, I want to tell you something. Those men last
night did bring very bad news, and Father will be away for some
time. I am very worried about it, and I want you all to help me,
and not to make things harder for me."

"As if we would!" said Roberta, holding Mother's hand against
her face.

"You can help me very much," said Mother, "by being good and
happy and not quarrelling when I'm away"—Roberta and Peter
exchanged guilty glances—"for I shall have to be away a good
deal."

"Who's calling names?" said Peter. "Bobbie knows right enough
that when I say 'silly', it's just the same as if I said
Bobbie."

"WELL," said Roberta.

"No, I don't mean what you mean. I mean it's just a—what is it
Father calls it?—a germ of endearment! Good night."

The girls folded up their clothes with more than usual
neatness—which was the only way of being good that they could think
of.

"I say," said Phyllis, smoothing out her pinafore, "you used to
say it was so dull—nothing happening, like in books. Now something
HAS happened."

"I never wanted things to happen to make Mother unhappy," said
Roberta. "Everything's perfectly horrid."

Everything continued to be perfectly horrid for some weeks.

Mother was nearly always out. Meals were dull and dirty. The
between-maid was sent away, and Aunt Emma came on a visit. Aunt
Emma was much older than Mother. She was going abroad to be a
governess. She was very busy getting her clothes ready, and they
were very ugly, dingy clothes, and she had them always littering
about, and the sewing-machine seemed to whir—on and on all day and
most of the night. Aunt Emma believed in keeping children in their
proper places. And they more than returned the compliment. Their
idea of Aunt Emma's proper place was anywhere where they were not.
So they saw very little of her. They preferred the company of the
servants, who were more amusing. Cook, if in a good temper, could
sing comic songs, and the housemaid, if she happened not to be
offended with you, could imitate a hen that has laid an egg, a
bottle of champagne being opened, and could mew like two cats
fighting. The servants never told the children what the bad news
was that the gentlemen had brought to Father. But they kept hinting
that they could tell a great deal if they chose—and this was not
comfortable.

One day when Peter had made a booby trap over the bath-room
door, and it had acted beautifully as Ruth passed through, that
red-haired parlour-maid caught him and boxed his ears.

"You'll come to a bad end," she said furiously, "you nasty
little limb, you! If you don't mend your ways, you'll go where your
precious Father's gone, so I tell you straight!"

Roberta repeated this to her Mother, and next day Ruth was sent
away.

Then came the time when Mother came home and went to bed and
stayed there two days and the Doctor came, and the children crept
wretchedly about the house and wondered if the world was coming to
an end.

Mother came down one morning to breakfast, very pale and with
lines on her face that used not to be there. And she smiled, as
well as she could, and said:—

"Now, my pets, everything is settled. We're going to leave this
house, and go and live in the country. Such a ducky dear little
white house. I know you'll love it."

A whirling week of packing followed—not just packing clothes,
like when you go to the seaside, but packing chairs and tables,
covering their tops with sacking and their legs with straw.

All sorts of things were packed that you don't pack when you go
to the seaside. Crockery, blankets, candlesticks, carpets,
bedsteads, saucepans, and even fenders and fire-irons.

The house was like a furniture warehouse. I think the children
enjoyed it very much. Mother was very busy, but not too busy now to
talk to them, and read to them, and even to make a bit of poetry
for Phyllis to cheer her up when she fell down with a screwdriver
and ran it into her hand.

"Aren't you going to pack this, Mother?" Roberta asked, pointing
to the beautiful cabinet inlaid with red turtleshell and brass.

"We can't take everything," said Mother.

"But we seem to be taking all the ugly things," said
Roberta.

"We're taking the useful ones," said Mother; "we've got to play
at being Poor for a bit, my chickabiddy."

When all the ugly useful things had been packed up and taken
away in a van by men in green-baize aprons, the two girls and
Mother and Aunt Emma slept in the two spare rooms where the
furniture was all pretty. All their beds had gone. A bed was made
up for Peter on the drawing-room sofa.

"I say, this is larks," he said, wriggling joyously, as Mother
tucked him up. "I do like moving! I wish we moved once a
month."

Mother laughed.

"I don't!" she said. "Good night, Peterkin."

As she turned away Roberta saw her face. She never forgot
it.

"Oh, Mother," she whispered all to herself as she got into bed,
"how brave you are! How I love you! Fancy being brave enough to
laugh when you're feeling like THAT!"

Next day boxes were filled, and boxes and more boxes; and then
late in the afternoon a cab came to take them to the station.

Aunt Emma saw them off. They felt that THEY were seeing HER off,
and they were glad of it.

"But, oh, those poor little foreign children that she's going to
governess!" whispered Phyllis. "I wouldn't be them for
anything!"

At first they enjoyed looking out of the window, but when it
grew dusk they grew sleepier and sleepier, and no one knew how long
they had been in the train when they were roused by Mother's
shaking them gently and saying:—

"Wake up, dears. We're there."

They woke up, cold and melancholy, and stood shivering on the
draughty platform while the baggage was taken out of the train.
Then the engine, puffing and blowing, set to work again, and
dragged the train away. The children watched the tail-lights of the
guard's van disappear into the darkness.

This was the first train the children saw on that railway which
was in time to become so very dear to them. They did not guess then
how they would grow to love the railway, and how soon it would
become the centre of their new life, nor what wonders and changes
it would bring to them. They only shivered and sneezed and hoped
the walk to the new house would not be long. Peter's nose was
colder than he ever remembered it to have been before. Roberta's
hat was crooked, and the elastic seemed tighter than usual.
Phyllis's shoe-laces had come undone.

"Come," said Mother, "we've got to walk. There aren't any cabs
here."

The walk was dark and muddy. The children stumbled a little on
the rough road, and once Phyllis absently fell into a puddle, and
was picked up damp and unhappy. There were no gas-lamps on the
road, and the road was uphill. The cart went at a foot's pace, and
they followed the gritty crunch of its wheels. As their eyes got
used to the darkness, they could see the mound of boxes swaying
dimly in front of them.

A long gate had to be opened for the cart to pass through, and
after that the road seemed to go across fields—and now it went down
hill. Presently a great dark lumpish thing showed over to the
right.

"The woman I engaged to clean the place, and put the furniture
straight and get supper."

There was a low wall, and trees inside.

"That's the garden," said Mother.

"It looks more like a dripping-pan full of black cabbages," said
Peter.

The cart went on along by the garden wall, and round to the back
of the house, and here it clattered into a cobble-stoned yard and
stopped at the back door.

There was no light in any of the windows.

Everyone hammered at the door, but no one came.

The man who drove the cart said he expected Mrs. Viney had gone
home.

"You see your train was that late," said he.

"But she's got the key," said Mother. "What are we to do?"

"Oh, she'll have left that under the doorstep," said the cart
man; "folks do hereabouts." He took the lantern off his cart and
stooped.

"Ay, here it is, right enough," he said.

He unlocked the door and went in and set his lantern on the
table.

"Got e'er a candle?" said he.

"I don't know where anything is." Mother spoke rather less
cheerfully than usual.

He struck a match. There was a candle on the table, and he
lighted it. By its thin little glimmer the children saw a large
bare kitchen with a stone floor. There were no curtains, no
hearth-rug. The kitchen table from home stood in the middle of the
room. The chairs were in one corner, and the pots, pans, brooms,
and crockery in another. There was no fire, and the black grate
showed cold, dead ashes.

As the cart man turned to go out after he had brought in the
boxes, there was a rustling, scampering sound that seemed to come
from inside the walls of the house.

"Oh, what's that?" cried the girls.

"It's only the rats," said the cart man. And he went away and
shut the door, and the sudden draught of it blew out the
candle.

"Oh, dear," said Phyllis, "I wish we hadn't come!" and she
knocked a chair over.